To see me, my kindred impatiently wait,--
I think of those dear ones,--my soul's in a strait,--
My father, my mother, my dear orphan son,--
Oh Lord, decide for me, let thy will be done'





JUDSON'S GRAVE.

Dear shepherd of the Burman sheep,
Where have they laid thee down to sleep?
Beside thy long lamented Ann,
Or 'midst thy charge at Aracan?
Or does that palm tree o'er thee wave,
Which shadows thy dear Sarah's grave?
I pause, and drop the silent tear,--
In mournful tones, a voice I hear,
Exclaiming, "Earth affords no space
For Judson's last calm resting place."
Ye spicy groves, perfume each breeze
That steals along the Indian seas,--
For we have felt a pang of woe,
Since, plunged in awful depths below,
Our much lamented Judson's clay,
Must 'neath its rolling billows lay,
Where monsters of the ocean creep,
'Round him o'er whom the nations weep.
No stone directs the stranger's eye